Chapter 55
Alan Eagleton said once that sometimes you have to think of a task in hand like an unstable bomb in a box. Every bit of your
concentration, every scrap of your energy has to be screwed to it to stop it going off. Nothing is allowed to get in the way
of you delivering it intact to its destination. Then and only then can you let anything else into your brain. Polly couldn’t
remember what he’d said it about, but that’s what came to her mind when she was making her final notes for her presentation
to the big boys of Ciaoissimo. Every thought she’d had, every sentence she’d written recently had been around them and how
she was going to “take them to where they needed to be”— their words, their instruction.
She’d booked the boardroom. She’d arranged the caterers personally rather than leave it to her junior, Brock, because there
were to be no mistakes, no compromises, and she’d deal with the consequences of her actions later. Jeremy’s eyeballs would
bulge at the expense, but he was in for as much impact as he could handle. After all, his direction had been crystal clear:
Give them everything you’ve got. His words, his instruction. All of the big five from the germinal Italian restaurant chain turned up to witness the big bang they’d been promised. Brock
showed them up to the directorate where Polly was waiting to charm them. She could hear them laughing as they approached,
the smug guffaws of fat cats already counting their creamy dividends.
“Polly Potter, how lovely to meet you,” she said, greeting them on their arrival.
Her own name still tasted odd in her mouth, like a fish-flavored fruit pastille.
“I’ve read so much about you that I feel as if I know you already.
” She chortled, but it was true. She knew more about them than they did themselves.
She’d dug deep down to their very core, although they’d helpfully left enough rot on their surface because it was amazing how careless people could be who thought themselves untouchable, whose hubris blinded them to their fallibility; one only had to see the sleaze surrounding some celebrities and footballers in the papers to know that.
Richard Pound was the first to introduce himself to her.
She recognized him as the customer who had made a fuss about his steak in Teddy’s restaurant and “found” glass in the zabaglione.
He had a crushing handshake intended to intimidate. Then she shook the hand of Councilor James Stirling, joint owner of the
shitting spaniel, and Nicholas de Massey, company secretary. Peter Hore, who intro’ed himself as “I’m the money.” And finally
there was Donald Devine, who was dapper and ancient and didn’t seem to know what day it was. If he sneezed, Polly half expected
a pound of powder to fly off his rather obvious toupée.
The catering staff had started to serve, and Polly asked everyone to take their seats at the table. They’d eat first, before
her presentation; she wanted them oiled by rich food—but mostly wine. There was a lemon-gold white and a serious red; she’d
chosen them because they were quality, Italian, and also had high alcohol content. Any stronger and they’d have been a petrol.
“Well, this is jolly nice,” said Richard Pound, settling into being schmoozed. By the time she’d eaten her first forkful of
lobster thermidor salad, he’d already told her he’d just bought himself a Bentley and that he had an MBE for his services
for charity. Polly wondered how much he’d paid for that in backhanders. “Yes, top-class bit of crustacean.”
“I’m glad you like it. I designed the menu very carefully,” Polly agreed, and topped up his wine. He’d downed the first one like a parched whale.
“So, Polly ,” said Councilor Stirling, seated on Polly’s right side. He’d introduced himself as “Jim, Just Jim” in the manner of “Bond,
James Bond.”
“What businesses have you turned round then, little lady? Seduce us.”
He was greasy, shiny with sweat, and bloated, and he reminded her of Camay’s husband, also a business fat cat. She was tempted
to check the carpet to see if he’d left a slug trail where he’d trodden. She wouldn’t have put “Jim, Just Jim” in a couple
with the glamorous woman with the defecating dog.
Polly smiled, leaning forward onto her elbows. “Well, where does one begin: Nutbush sports, Knock Doors, Richmond and Harris
furniture, Planet Insurance, Kitty-Kitten Heels, Mr. Shine... the Fish Fillies.” She knew all those names would score for
anyone in business. Especially the Fish Fillies, who had wanted to give Harry Ramsden’s a run for their money and she’d made
them even bigger.
“The Fish Fillies? That was you?” said Peter Hore, clearly impressed. Someone else officially took the credit, of course,
but yes, it was all her own work all right. She nodded bashfully.
“Gentlemen,” Richard Pound announced to the rest of the table, raising his glass. “I think we are in safe hands.”
Over Chateaubriand, carved and served artfully by a chef in front of them wielding a knife that a pirate would have been happy
with, the Ciaoissimo party laughed about how they’d bulldozed all opposition in their way so far, how unbeatable they were
with their combined dark strength. And Polly edged the conversation around to their new intended flagship restaurant as the
waiting staff fulfilled their instructions to keep those glasses topped up.
“Massive potential for clientele,” said Richard, as he tore into his beef without any complaint about how it was cooked. “There’s a smart little Italian nearby that, alas, we’re going to blow out of the water. But there can only be one head lion in a pride. All’s fair in love, war, and business.”
“That is exactly my mantra,” Polly agreed fervently. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Have you started an active campaign,
if you know what I mean?”
Richard didn’t answer immediately, but his jaw was working on his lunch as if he were chewing on far more than just the meat.
“This is all totally confidential, isn’t it?”
“Let me just say,” replied Polly, “you have no idea of the depths I’ve had to swim to in order to put my clients in their
rightful place.”
Richard smiled as if this was music to his ears.
“I always think,” Polly continued, “in business, you have to do what you have to do.” Richard held up his glass and Polly
chinked hers against it.
“Dog eat dog,” he said and winked.
“Dog eat dog,” said Polly, praying that the recording device she had secreted about her person was getting all this. She knew
the four boardroom cameras were because she could see the red light of the one directly ahead blinking as if to assure her.
The footage, thanks to fellow psychopath Len Champion, who’d rigged up all the equipment, would download directly to her laptop
from all the varying angles so they could catch everything , and would be stored safely in the cloud. There was less filming equipment on Love Island .
“Well,” began Richard, before confiding in Polly what they’d done to close down the Italian in Scarborough which three generations
of the family had run. It was clear the power had gone to their heads, especially as no one had stopped them so far, and as
such they thought they were invincible. He told her then about the compulsory purchase order they’d just had served on a restaurant
in Bridlington and the pathetic efforts of the family who’d owned it to try to stop them.
“ No pain, no gain ,” he snickered, even though it was someone else’s pain that enabled the Ciaoissimo crew to gain.
Jeremy arrived just as dessert was being served: zabaglione accompanied by a sugary Torcolato dessert wine.
He shook everyone’s hands enthusiastically and absorbed that talks between BS and Ciaoissimo were going very well.
He did a double take at the number of wine bottles on the table.
Luckily he didn’t know the half of it, thought Polly. That beef didn’t come cheap. Or the lobster.
“Yum yum, zabaglione.” Richard Pound nodded approvingly. “I wish I could confess what I did to some of this stuff recently.”
He chuckled to himself.
“Oh, do say,” replied Polly in her best silky voice. She’d chosen the dessert deliberately, hoping it would entice a tongue
to wag.
Richard was about to, then thought better of it. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Then I’ll never know; what a shame.” Polly appeared to give up asking, knowing he really wanted to tell, and he fell for
it.
Richard Pound looked behind him as if expecting to see a spy lurking, then whispered, “I shouldn’t really share, but I was
a bit naughty. Slightly low blow.”
“How low did you go?” Polly widened her eyes in anticipation of being thrilled.
“Snake’s belly low,” said Richard. “We aren’t people you mess with, if you know what I mean.” He raised his eyebrows knowingly,
but he couldn’t quite pull off the hard-man effect. “We aren’t averse to a smear campaign or two.” He nodded across the table
at Nicholas de Massey. “Old Nick there is our dedicated review writer. He’s got his whole family onto it. Nephew’s a bit of
a whiz on the net and he can bounce things off servers so nothing’s traced back.”
“You mean like... fake restaurant reviews?” suggested Polly.
“Indeed I do,” said Richard, impressed by her “lucky guess.”
“Effective?”
“They work a treat on the ‘no smoke without fire’ principle. We’ve managed to crash and burn one competitor by those alone.
We’re having to up the ante with the new venture as it’s quite popular.
I thought I’d try it out. Tidy little place; shame it has to go.
” He sighed as if he cared. “Ended up cutting my lip on some glass in a pudding. Haven’t a clue how it got there, of course, but four of us ended up eating for free. Result.” He winked.
“Oh my goodness,” said Polly, hands flying up to her face in shock. “Don’t tell me that’s your level of sabotage?” She laughed,
impressed.